The Big Ten: Stealing

Love is the only thing that multiplies when we give it all away.

​Back in my advertising days, I worked at a rather large agency that took up three floors of a building. It had hundreds of offices and cubicles, dozens of conference rooms, but only one lunch room.

It was an ordinary nondescript space with a few tables, a microwave that permanently smelled like burnt popcorn, and a refrigerator that was the subject of a crime wave worthy of a movie of the week.

You see, the office had a thief who snuck into the lunch room and stole sandwiches, and swiped sodas. Every day, someone’s leftovers would disappear. Then one day, one employee who had enough, taped a sign inside the fridge: “Whoever’s stealing lunches, God’s watching!”

But the thief, who had a sense of humor, replied with a note of their own. It read, “God saw me eat your burrito. And forgives me.”
 
While I don’t condone theft—I did admire the theology. They somehow managed to hold together sin, grace, and Mexican food all in one note.
 
Which takes us to our reading to day from Exodus 20:15, which simply states,“Do Not Steal.”
 
It’s an appropriate commandment to follow Halloween, don’t you think? Think about it. You're  a kid out trick-or-treating. You get to that house that leaves a bowl of candy outside with a note that says “Please take only one.” Who here, wouldn’t take two or three or the entire bowl.
 
We know stealing is wrong. Yet, if we’re honest, we all take things that aren’t ours. Sometimes a few snicker’s bars, a box of pens from work, a little extra time on the clock.
 
The Hebrew verb lo tignov (לֹא תִּגְנֹב) literally means what’s written: “Don’t steal.” That’s it. It’s short. Sharp. And to the point. But, as we’ve been learning throughout this sermon series on the Big Ten…rarely is it ever that simple.
 
In the world of ancient Israel, a person’s tools, livestock, or land were their means of survival. To steal a goat, a plow, or a cloak wasn’t just a property crime—it was a threat to someone’s very existence. But that Hebrew verb isn’t just limited to personal items.
 
In rabbinic tradition, there were three kinds of stealing. One was material. Stealing possessions. One was emotional. Stealing someone’s mind or deceiving them. And one was spiritual. Stealing someone’s rest or peace. How profound is that? Interrupting someone’s quiet time was considered theft.
 
So, it shouldn’t surprise us that Jesus pushes this notion further, transforming an ordinary commandment into extraordinary compassion. (Remember, Jesus doesn’t nullify commandments—he intensifies them.) He goes for the heart.
 
He calls out the “thieves” who hoard instead of share (Matthew 6:19–21). The temple swindlers who profit off the poor (Mark 11:15–17). And the powers that rob people of rest, dignity, and life itself (Matthew 11:28 and John 10:10). Again and again, Jesus reveals that the real theft isn’t about taking possessions—it’s about taking what God intended for all: peace, justice, and the fullness of life.
 
Take the story of Jesus meeting the tax collector - a person who’s been stealing money from his neighbors. Still, Jesus doesn’t condemn Zacchaeus. Instead, he loves him. Has dinner with him. And by of this action, Jesus transforms him, the way he sees, the way he acts.
 
Poor Zacchaeus only response is to  repay everyone he’s cheated four times the amount. (Luke 19:8)
 
Jesus reveals something vital to us all in this story: love doesn’t take; it gives back. That’s Kingdom logic—God’s abundance always leads us toward more generosity.
 
Jesus shows us that the opposite of stealing isn’t simply not stealing.It’s sharing. It’s living with an open-hand in a closed-fist world.
 
Richard Rohr says, “The opposite of consumption isn’t poverty—it’s enoughness.” Meaning, when we know who we are and what we have is enough, then we no longer need to take what isn’t ours.
 
We may not be robbing banks or nicking leftovers from the company fridge. But how many times do we steal credit for ideas that weren’t ours? Or steal time from our families by working late? 

We steal hope when we mock or dismiss someone’s dreams. We steal dignity when we stereotype others for their race, gender, or orientation. We steal joy when we live in comparison and resentment instead of gratitude. We even steal from creation—taking more from the earth than we return, acting as if we own what was meant to be shared. St. Francis taught that to steal from creation is to rob our own soul.
 
So when we hear, “Do not steal,” maybe it’s not just about stuff. Maybe it’s a cosmic invitation to restore right relationship—with people, with the planet, and with the divine Presence that holds all things together. That’s the power of God’s love that is in all of us.
 
Years ago, my friend’s bike was taken at Venice Beach. To him, it wasn’t just his only mode of transportation—it was his symbol of starting over after facing some hard luck.
 
A couple weeks later, walking down the boardwalk, he spotted his bike. The man ridding it had most certainly claimed it as his own. When my buddy saw it, he grabbed the handlebars, and yelled, “Hey man, that’s my bike.” The guy froze. He didn’t try to run or fight back.
 
In that moment, my friend saw himself—not his property. But in the face of someone down on his luck. He’d been in that guy’s shoes before.
 
 So instead of calling the cops, he let go and said, “You know what? Keep it. Just take care of her. There’s a lot of thieves around here.”  Later, he told me, that was the moment that freed him more than any bike back ever could.
 
At its core, this commandment is about God’s love and an economy founded upon God’s shalom—wholeness, mutual care, justice. That’s why the Torah is filled with what I’d call “anti-theft laws” that are disguised as compassion.
 
For example: Farmers must leave the edges of their fields for the poor (Leviticus 19:9). Not only does this reduce hunger, but keeps people from stealing what isn’t theirs. Debts are forgiven every seven years (Deuteronomy 15) so people don’t feel the need to cheat or swindle their creditors. Land is returned in Jubilee (Leviticus 25) for pretty much the same reason.
 
These few examples and more, are commands to stop hoarding and start sharing, to ensure no one is without.
 
That includes the story of Jesus who multiplies loaves and fish. This isn’t a magic trick. But an invitation to participate in God’s kingdom. Jesus takes and blesses what little they have, then invites everyone to share. Suddenly there’s more than enough.
 
St. Basil the Great said, “The bread in your cupboard belongs to the hungry. The coat in your closet belongs to the naked.” And centuries later, Dorothy Day echoed him saying, “We cannot love God unless we love our brothers and sisters, …and to love them we must know them. We know them when we break bread together.”
 
They both teach us the same truth: Love is the only currency that never runs out.
 
The call to every follower of Jesus is to heal, not steal. It’s how we build a generous community of love together in the space between. The space between mine and yours, us and them, having and sharing.
 
Every time we give, be it bag of groceries, a bike, or a smile; every time we forgive someone who has wronged us or has taken from us, every time we show compassion to someone reaching out we’re keeping this commandment, healing and restoring what’s been stolen.
 
What does this mean for us today? Maybe there’s someone from whom you’ve taken joy, dignity, or time. Or maybe you’re the one hoarding what could be shared with someone in need.
 
Is there an area where fear keeps your hands clenched instead of open? If so, then make it right. Return what you’ve taken. Restore what’s been lost. Redeem what’s been broken. Go and spend your life like holy currency. Make kindness your coin, mercy your wealth.
 
Go out into the world being the hands and heart of Christ, freely giving all that has been given to you.
 
It’s in doing these things that the world is able to see how love is the only thing that multiplies when we give it all away.